The Only Way
by V. E. Brand
Summary: Written from Katniss' POV after the Capitol falls, after she returns to District 12. Life in Panem goes on, but has come to a standstill for Katniss. Haunted by hurt and loss, she tries to cope but every attempt to hang on leads to more pain. And the only person who knows how she feels is Haymitch. Can he help her before it's too late? Strong themes, possible mature content.


**Chapter I**

I watch the geese graze across the lawns of the Victor's Village for a long time before I finally knock. And, predictably, no one comes to the door. I rap my knuckles against the wood a second time as a courtesy, and I go inside when there is no answer.

The floors have been freshly swept and the dishes sit clean in the drainer. Hired help, surely. There's the smell of something sweet and smoky in the air, and I'm sure there's a candle burning in here somewhere. I only hope Haymitch hasn't passed out. After all this, it'd be a crying shame to have the Victor's Village go up in flames because of an unattended candle.

"Haymitch!" I yell.

Nothing.

I take his stairs two at a time, and it takes all my energy to get to the top. Life as the Mockingjay took its toll on me, and now everything hurts, everything is so much more difficult. If there's one thing I can say about the Hunger Games, it's that they took pains to put you back together again when you fell apart. If you were a victor, that is. Not so much when you disband the game and overthrow the government.

"Haymitch!" I call again.

As I near his bedroom door, I wonder if I should turn back. The possibility that Haymitch might be alone with a suitor strikes me as unlikely, but it is a possibility all the same. Still, I reach for the knob and open the door because this can't wait.

He lies on the bed with a forearm draped over his eyes. The curtains are closed, the room dark, even though it's midday outside. The geese outside chatter, loudly at times, but it doesn't wake him. He's naked under the sheets that twist around him, and there's a bottle of white liquor toppled over on his bed.

I sigh as I cross the room and place the bottle on the nightstand. There's a small stain on the sheets and the smell is strong, but not strong enough to wake Haymitch. To be fair, nothing but a pitcher of ice water is enough to wake Haymitch. I shake him gently, but it's no use. And the idea of dousing him with water is more than I have the heart for right now.

Somewhere along the way, the girl on fire lost her spark.

So instead, I sit on the edge of his bed with my back to him and stare at his closet. One door hangs open, and a plethora of expensive clothes hang haphazardly from hangers. Courtesies of the Capitol, for a job well done. Haymitch Abernathy, winner of the 50th Hunger Games. Haymitch, whose every loved one was killed because of his victory. The very thought sickens me.

Some days, I wish I had shot President Snow instead of Coin. I know I made the right decision, but it still eats at me that I didn't get to see the light drain from his sadistic blue eyes. Especially when the memories of his tyranny are all around.

Haymitch's knife, the one he cannot sleep without, peeks out from beneath his pillow. I look at his face as he slumbers and frown at the grimace that pulls at his lips. Even unconscious he can't find peace. I know the feeling. Since returning to District 12, it's all I can do not to think of Prim, of Gale, of my mother, and everyone in between I've lost. So much death and destruction, and I brought it all on. How do I move past that?

"Haymitch," I say again. "Wake up."

My voice is weak and unconvincing, but he stirs all the same. When his eyes open, it takes him a moment to blink away the confusion.

"Come to take me up on that drink after all, sweetheart?" he says with a smirk.

I can't help but smile back, but it's a sad smile, and Haymitch's watchful eye takes notice.

"What's the matter?"

Again, I focus my attention on his closet as if it holds the answer to ending the torment inside of me. There is no answer, though, not while District 12 rebuilds on top of bones, while my sister lies in a grave, while Panem's open wound weeps all because I refused to play the game.

"I came to apologize," I say.

Haymitch chuckles. "You must've started without me." He reaches for the bottle on the nightstand, but I swoop it up before he can grab it. That familiar annoyance only I can provoke crosses his face. "If you want a drink, all you have to do is ask."

"I'm trying to talk to you," I say seriously.

His face darkens. He knows these moods. He's seen mine before, yes, but he has them himself. Days when the darkness comes back, the memories and the pain and the guilt, just as potent as the last time and the time before that. If Haymitch has taught me anything, it's that it never really goes away. Because there he lies, drinking himself stupid every day just to stay alive.

"I've said a lot of bad things to you over the years," I say.

He snorts and waves his hand dismissively. Then he sits up in his bed and rubs his eyes.

"Katniss, it's too damn early for this, honey."

Outside, Haymitch's geese squawk noisily. I fed them bread crumbs before coming inside, and it shut them up but only for a minute. For a moment I think this conversation will have to wait, that there may be visitors, but they die down soon enough.

"It's 1 o'clock, Haymitch. I don't have all day."

I get up from his bed and go downstairs, to give him privacy but also to collect my thoughts. A few minutes later, he appears, clothed but disheveled. His shirt isn't tucked in, and the buttons of his vest are crooked. And, of course, there's a bottle in his hand.

He sinks into an oversized chair across from me, takes a deep sip of his liquor, and looks at me pointedly.

"Alright," he says. "I'm all yours."

"I've said a lot of bad things to you," I say again. "And I want to apologize for that."

To admit my wrongs to another person has never been my strong suit, but the past few weeks have opened my eyes to the necessary evil of it all. Still, I don't look at Haymitch. I can't. Instead, my hands fidget in my lap.

"And for the face," I say, pointing to his cheek. The scabs have fallen away, leaving new pink skin beneath, and he reaches up to touch them almost reverently.

"You got me good, I'll give you that."

"I should have trusted you. I should have known you were the one person, beyond anyone else, that I could trust."

"I'm not sure I would have acted any different in your position."

I dare to look into those bright gray eyes of his. Of all the people, how is it that he knows me best of all? Even my own sister didn't know me like he does. There's worry in his features – I know him, too, and I see it in the way he tightens his jaw, the way he clenches his free hand, the way he brings his eyebrows together but only slightly.

"What is this, Katniss?"

"I can't…" I look up at him and for the first time since I watched my sister die, I feel like I might cry. "I'm going. I just had to say what I needed to say before I do."

"Going?" Haymitch asks with a shake of his head as if there's nothing in the world he could believe less. "Where to? District 4?"

District 4. Where my mother is. I can tell by the look on Haymitch's face, a look somewhere between disbelief and anger, that my answer better be yes. But it isn't. He knows me too well.

He trades his chair for the couch next to me, and sits so close I can smell the liquor on his breath. I've grown used to it and, truthfully, I think I'd be shocked if he smelled of anything else. Cologne, for instance.

"Don't do this," he says.

"It's just a trip," I lie. But I don't look at him, and he knows. He _knows_.

"Katniss," he says, and he takes my hand in his. I wince when he grips my right hand too tightly. It's still so sore. "What? Was is this?" He inspects my hand – there is no wound, and he expects an answer.

"I've been writing letters. To my mother, to Gale, to Peeta. Hell, even to Prim. Trying to make amends, trying to say everything I haven't been able to say."

"Before you throw in the towel," he says knowingly. He scoffs and gets to his feet and paces the room. Then he grabs the bottle from the table and downs a few gulps. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I can't–"

"You won't," Haymitch corrects me. His eyes are wide and livid. "Does all the time I put into keeping you alive mean nothing to you? I could have sat on my ass and let you die in that arena, _twice_ , but I didn't. And for what? So you could come back here and decide you're too broken to live in the new world you had a hand in creating?"

"People died!" I scream at him, getting to my feet.

"People always die, Katniss! Less now that the games are over and done. And you did that. You!" He points a finger at me and jabs it into my shoulder. "And don't get me started on Peeta."

"Peeta's not coming back," I choke out.

"If anyone's too broken, it's that boy. But when it came down to it, who tried to dine on nightlock, huh? It wasn't him, that's for damn sure." He scoffs again, and then he laughs. "You are unbelievable. Unbelievably selfish."

I push on his chest, and I push so hard he stumbles backwards. My breath is coming in spurts I'm so mad at him. Pushing my buttons is typical Haymitch, but this isn't how I expected this conversation to go. I should have been long gone by now, off in the woods.

"You cope your way," I point out, "with a bottle. Why's that right for you, but this isn't right for me?"

"Because I'm not hurting anyone," he warns. "People have lost too much, Katniss. Regardless of whether or not the games are over, you're still the Mockingjay. You're still the face of hope, of strength."

"So I'm supposed to, what? Drink myself to death so Panem can hold it together?"

He shakes his head almost violently. "If that's what it takes, yeah."

The idea is absurd to me, even now that the districts have their freedom. To be the girl who influenced it all, the catalyst of change. I still feel like a broken human being, surrounded by death and loneliness, an impossible combination to escape from. Haymitch drinks, but I don't – after a few glasses, it makes me sick but no less depressed. And the few medicines and herbs I've tried couldn't make a dent.

This was the only way for me.

"I'm sorry, but I can't do the next 25 years like this, Haymitch." I nod my head and make for the door, but he cuts me off, forcing himself between me and freedom. "Move."

"No. Not until you sit down and think this through."

"I have thought this through!" I scream at him. "I've been thinking it through since we came home! Now move!"

But he doesn't. He's as stubborn as I am, but much bigger. I'll never understand the way he sleeps all day and drinks all night but can still remain strong. On the hovercraft, when I scratched him, he subdued me with ease. He wasn't so much taller then me, and he wasn't so much bigger, but he was stronger than I ever would have imagined. There were times when I wondered what fighting along side him in the Quarter Quell would have been like.

"Fine," I say. "Then I'm taking some of your booze."

"Now you're speaking my language," he says with a smirk.

I go to his kitchen, but I don't open the refrigerator. Instead, I open his back door, and before he knows what's happening, I run through his back yard, scattering geese with every stride.

Haymitch shouts after me, but I'm long gone by the time he follows.

This is the only way for me.

 **A/n: Thanks for reading! I've been wanting to do this fic for a long time, so let me know what you think. Favorites, Follows, and Reviews are all greatly appreciated : )**


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